As bizarre as his costume was, there was an even more perplexing fact about his appearance. He had come in through the storm she could still hear pounding the outdoors as vigorously as when she’d flung herself inside the barn—and yet he was completely dry. Glowing, even. Some of the light around them seemed to be coming directly from him.
She frowned and moved the lantern back and forth, testing the theory. His skin, from every rippling muscle to the tattoo splashed over one shoulder, shone with some kind of barely perceptible illumination.
Her own skin prickled with electricity, as though lightning were about to strike indoors.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Is this your barn?”
***
Eradimus stared down at the beauty seated on her Bride’s bed, feeling his chest almost cave in from the pressure of her words. Who was he? How could she have returned and yet claim not to remember him?
That she was his Brighid was no question. Her curls, though darkened because of the wetness as it hung in damp, stubborn waves around her, was the same fiery red of her spirit. Her eyes, gazing up in wide-eyed confusion much as they had the first time he’d ever seen her, were the same clear, determined blue of an untamed, yet pure soul. This was the woman he had seen standing alone on a mountaintop, devoid of hope, watching the rise of flood waters that had already washed away much of humanity. The innocent virgin had sought higher ground not because she’d known what was coming, but because she’d gone off on a lark to enjoy a stroll in the woods. That act alone would not have saved her life, just preserved it long enough to delay her torment. Then Eradimus, stunned at the earth’s fury in ridding itself of the humans who had trampled her grasses and forgotten the ways of magic, had appeared to the frightened beauty to bolster her spirits in her final moments. A fool’s errand, perhaps, for as he stood beside her, words and noble intent had escaped him. In the end, he had lent her strength by putting his arms around her, and she had responded with a whirlwind of passion that had knocked him senseless. To this very day, he had never recovered.
“Well?” she asked. “Is it your barn?”
Thoughts snapped back to the present, and he glanced around the barn. “This structure has stood for generations, prepared each year per custom as a testament to the one other time your appearance was marked in this spot. A testament—and an invitation for you to return.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been here before. Not to this barn, not even to Ireland. I don’t know what Brighid you’re looking for, but I can assure you that I’m not her.”
He stepped forward, and she drew back, eying the door behind him. He stood between her and the way out, and he could see in her expression that she was considering making a run for it. Why did she wish escape? And even if she could evade him, where would she go? Back into a raging storm?
“You’re late,” he said. “You did not return to me on the nineteenth turn of the wheel.”
“I found this barn by accident,” she said. “I’m just a tourist. I was out for a ride to see the countryside when my bike went over a cliff.” She held up a hand, and he frowned when he noticed the damaged skin on her palm. Her lip was swollen as well. “The storm came on quite suddenly, and I needed shelter. This is the first place I saw.”
“You are hurt.”
“Not nearly as bad as I could have been, considering.”
He drew near, and she gasped when he reached down and placed his hand over hers. He felt the heat of his strength as it flooded her, and he saw her eyes fly wide, glimmering golden for a moment under the influence of his power. He traced her swollen lip, and she drew back. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you. How are you now?”
“I...” she flexed her hands, gaping down at them. “The pain is gone.” Her tongue flicked out over her lip. “How? It’s not possible.”
“I barely dared to hope when I saw the snowdrops in bloom again,” he said. “Then I spotted the ring of scorched earth marking the spot of your return.”
“Scorched earth?” She frowned for a moment. “You mean the lightning strike? I didn’t make that mark.”
“Why did you not come to me at the appointed time?”
She sighed in reply.
Clearly, nothing he said was getting through. She was truly confused about her identity. Perhaps she thought he was play acting. Pagans in the region liked to dress up and reenact rituals and engage in role play around the time of the sabbats.
“Did you set up this bed out here?” she asked, echoing his thoughts. “And the food?”
“Not I. But as I said, this room was prepared in your honor per custom. Many followers of the old ways have decorated a bride’s bed this night in hopes you will grant them your blessings.”
“Bride’s bed?”
She jumped up and moved away as though the mattress had burned her, wrapping the quilt around her firmly. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m a stranger to this land. I have no interest in taking part in this custom of yours. Now if you’ll please leave, I’ll get my things and be on my way.”
He didn’t move, just stared into those vibrant blue eyes of hers until his stomach churned. “You wish me to go?”
“Yes. So I can get dressed.”
Instead, he moved closer. “So that is why you did not return. You truly do not remember anything. Not me, not even yourself.”
“I know who I am. The problem here is that you don’t.”
“Should I pretend not to know you because you have forgotten? Or shall I remind you of who we are? What we are meant to do when we come together on the eve of spring’s return?”
He reached for her again, but stopped when she recoiled. Her face, beautiful though it was in the glowing lantern light, held such an expression of fear that he knew she was telling the truth. She was totally convinced she was not the Brighid he had come for.
“I’m sorry,” she said, apparently seeing the pain behind his stunned expression. “I don’t mean to disappoint you.”
There was genuine remorse in the words, but it did little to assuage the sinking feeling in his stomach. She had finally returned to him, yet she was still lost. If she could not remember, or if he could not convince her to accept him as she had the first time they had been strangers, the human race might be lost as well.
“It has been twenty-one years since last we brought forth the spring,” he said, “and you return unawakened to the memory of what has gone before.” His brow furrowed. “What happened two years ago? What changed?”
***
Brighid’s breath caught. “Two years ago,” she whispered.
“What changed?” he repeated.
Her heart sped. “There was an accident.”
“You spoke of an accident. I saw the injuries.”
She shook her head. “Not that. This was a car accident—a bad one. That’s why I switched to riding bicycles, once I was well enough. It happened two years ago.”
“You were hurt in this accident.”
“They said it was a miracle I survived.”
“It was no miracle. It was magic. You are part immortal, after all.”
She ignored the comment. “I was hurt. I had a bad concussion.” Her words trailed off for a moment. “At first I didn’t even remember who I was.”
The man strode to the end of the small barn, turning away from her with his hands on his hips. The shoulder tattoo curled around onto his arm flirted with the edges of her most erotic fantasies. Foolish as it seemed, in that moment she desperately wished she was the woman he was after.
“My father says no magic is eternal. Not even that of love.” He turned toward her, and his eyes seemed to glow brighter in the dim corner he stood in. “I did not want to believe him. But it seems his words are true.”
There was such despair in his tone that her stomach twisted. “Who is your father? And who are you?”
“We spoke often of defying his mandate somehow,” he went on, ignoring the question. “
Of finding a power that would allow us to be united evermore.” An unexpected smile took hold of his handsome features and cranked them up into an impossible sexiness that dried what little moisture remained in her mouth. “I spent many years searching for such a way. And when the fires at Kildare were rekindled in your honor, it seemed your influence was again taking hold in the hearts of men—enough to see our wish fulfilled. But the magic has gone out of this world, and with it, hope that spring will again bloom warm and fresh as it once did.”
Nothing he said made much sense, but her curiosity tingled nonetheless. “When was it you last saw me? Or her, rather. The other Brighid.”
He sighed. “Our fate is meant to intertwine every nineteen years. But after the fires of Kildare, just when it seemed we would find the way to break the cycle, you failed to return at the appointed hour.”
“I’m here now.”
She shouldn’t have worded it that way, really. It was wrong to play into his delusion. Still, she wanted to hear more about this other Brighid. There was such a masculine power about him, a sheer virility that sent a rush of heat flowing from her face down to her sex. His passion for this woman intrigued her, and she wanted to bask in that warmth for just a bit longer.
“And yet you still do not remember who you are.” He eyed her until she grew dizzy from holding her breath. “I have long suffered in the years after your rebirth when you carry no memory of me or our love. But in the nineteenth year, in the time when ewes are heavy with lamb and the land awaits your awakening, your eyes are opened to the truth and you return to me. You return that we may rejoice for a single year, a turn of the wheel that brings forth a generation of springs to come.”
Being befuddled by fatigue and his very nearness, she lacked the sharpness of mind it would take to make any sense of his tale. But what she could process made her giggle.
“So basically you’re saying the storm outside is my fault?” She laughed again. “Because I didn’t bring back spring last year?”
His frown deepened. “You laugh when I have suffered. I and so many others.”
Her smile faded. He was either a great actor or he really believed what he was telling her.
“The storms will worsen as the earth struggles to shake off its yoke and renew itself.” Imploring eyes searched hers. “We must unite before all is lost, and the world covers itself with flood waters as it did once before.”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t mean the great flood? Noah’s ark and animals two by two?”
“Not until you and I came together atop the highest mount did the earth see there was still magic in its midst. The waters subsided, and my father tasked me—us—to be overseers of Imbolc. In the season of the ewe’s milk, we must close the curtain against the harsh days of winter. Else the world may again despair for the loss of magic and seek to throw off those who would destroy the power of it.”
She eyed him for a long moment. “This is the story you’re going with? I have to sleep with you to save the world? You won’t even tell me your name.” Although as ludicrous as the whole notion was, Brighid found the tale—and the zeal in which he spoke of it—rather intriguing.
His eyes burned brighter. “Deep within, you know my name. You gave me your virginity on that mountaintop willingly, vigorously, before knowing the earth would see the magic in our love and relent. You have given it to me many times since.”
“You might be a little confused as to what virginity means. Losing it is a one-time deal.”
“Not for a half immortal who is born anew each generation.”
She frowned. “Half immortal.”
He nodded. “My father’s doing. You are no longer human, but nor are you a full goddess. Except to me, and to many who revere the name of Brighid.”
Now she laughed openly. “This is quite a story, I’ll admit. But as I’ve already said, I don’t know you or your customs. You can see this won’t be getting you what you’re apparently after.” Which was clearly to gain access into her pants, not that she had any on. Though despite her resolve to keep him at arm’s length, there was that rather maddening tingle between her legs that sparked an urge to know what it would be like to have him touch her there.
“No matter,” he said. “Your spell may have failed to awaken you, but perhaps I can do it myself.”
He closed the distance between them, and Brighid knew what he meant to do from the determined look in his eye. She darted away and reached for her clothing. “I should go,” she said.
Then he was behind her, and his voice so near startled her. “And where would you go? Out into the storm?”
She spun around, clutching the quilt around her until her fingers ached. “That seems safer at the moment.”
He shook his head. “Please try to remember,” he said. “The earth needs your magic. I need you.” He bent closer, until his golden eyes filled her vision. “Awaken, my beautiful goddess.”
His lips brushed hers with a tender passion that burned through her like a summer sun. Brighid shivered despite the warmth of his touch, surrendering to the rush of sensation flooding her body. She would let him have his kiss, wondering if maybe, just maybe, his story wasn’t some crazy fiction after all. Maybe the magic of the forest prince’s lips would awaken her, and she would remember being who he wanted her to be.
***
One thing couldn’t be denied, and that was the fact that his Brighid responded to him on a primal level, even if her memories did not. His cock stiffened as their lips sought one another’s, rubbing together in a maddening tease that made him long to pull away the quilt she had wrapped her warm body in. This time, as no other, he would make such an end to her virginity that she would remember him for all time, his father’s damnable curse or not.
His tongue sought hers, and her desire burned bright enough in his memory to recall the sheer power of it drying flood waters. But all of it was mere fantasy to her in her present form, not the memory of a life long forgotten.
She gasped at the sweep of his tongue pushing into her mouth, but she broke off their embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “More than I probably should be. But I’m not some slumbering Celtic goddess. I’m just, well, me.”
A stab of regret drove through his stomach, even more so when her hand closed around the wet garments she apparently meant to put back on. One look at them told him there was no use bothering. The fabric was too tight and wet to slide into.
He clenched his jaw against the teasing whisper of something else tight and wet. And so close to him that he wanted to let out a warrior yell and take it. Perhaps if he’d been willing to take on his father long ago, this wouldn’t be happening. But an entire army would be hard met to best the likes of Herne, god of the forest, hunter of the ages. His power was formidable, and his will absolute.
“This whole thing is crazy,” she said. “I’m in a barn with a sexy stranger who wants me to be part of some odd pagan ritual. What a travel story that will make, eh? Even better than the part where I almost went over the famed Irish cliffs.”
“Brighid,” he said, but she shook her head.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Why do you insist on going out into that maelstrom? The touch of immortality my father granted you might keep you from the arms of death, but you can still suffer the elements’ wrath.”
“Stop. Stop with all this play acting. I can’t listen to any more.”
He had no desire to let her go out in that storm, but her eyes held the terror of a trapped animal. She appeared driven to escape that barn. “Just let me go.”
Barely bothering to stuff her feet back into her shoes, she fled, clutching her wet things. The quilt she drew around her shoulders swept behind her like an absurd travel cloak.
Outside, the rain slapped at his face as he ran, wondering where she planned to go, why she had been so compelled to come back out in the incessant rainfall. She would catch pneumonia, if nothing else.
He caught up to her a
nd cut her off. Lightning lit the sky, illuminating his features. Her brows were knit low across those incredible eyes, but in the brief flash of light, he could see pain mirrored in their depths.
“Why do you run, Brighid?” he called out. “No sane being would be out in this deluge, yet you prefer the company of lightning and bitter cold to that of mine.”
“I want to find somewhere safe,” she shouted over the ominous roll of thunder. “I’m not safe with you.”
A stab of pain shot through him. Over the lifetimes, they had meant many things to one another. But never, not even the first time on the mountain, had she viewed him as someone dangerous.
“You are safer with me than anywhere else you could be,” he said. “But I will leave you, if that is truly your wish. Just come back inside.”
Her feet would not move, though. Not back toward the barn, but no longer to escape it, either.
“Brighid, please.”
Then the flash came, brighter than the strike that had scorched the grass earlier. He could see the wild desperation in her eyes, the hunger that told her she still wanted him, no matter how fast she tried to outrun it. He would kiss her again, right out in the storm, and she would remember.
He didn’t get the chance. The lightning was on her, driven down from the sky right into her head.
The god of Imbolc took involuntary flight, flung backward from the sheer force of the strike. His limbs clenched in an involuntary spasm, and when he hit the ground some feet away, the wind rushed out of him. He coughed, inhaling an acrid scent of burnt hair, knew some of his had been singed in the strike. He didn’t care. He shot upright as best he could, but he was gripped by the pain of every muscle being tightened into knots.
“Brighid,” he managed in a rasp, and his eyes grew wide while he watched what was happening to the woman he loved.
***
Every inch of Brighid seized up, unable to respond to the man calling out to her. She stood frozen in place as the bolt charged through, eventually blinding her with its light, singing away everything she knew and anything she might have been. This was death, it had to be. No one could survive what was happening.
Eradimus: God of Imbolc (Sons of Herne, #2) Page 3
